


Collecting Legends

by ShadowyStar



Category: Coldfire Trilogy - C. S. Friedman
Genre: Damien Is Not A Happy Bunny, Damien Needs A Hug, Damien's idea of coping is a bit unusual, Gerald has to face the consequences, Gerald needs a kick where it hurts the most, M/M, Originally Posted on FanFiction.Net, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Canon, Post-Canon Fix-It, Slow Burn, but there's a long way to go, hey I did say it was a fix-it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-16
Updated: 2016-12-30
Packaged: 2018-08-09 05:36:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7788772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShadowyStar/pseuds/ShadowyStar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Where old legends die, new ones come to birth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Legend One

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own the Coldfire trilogy. It belongs to C.S. Friedman. I do own this story. Characters, places, locations and organizations not appearing or being mentioned in the books are also mine. Do not archive or translate or otherwise use without permission.
> 
> A/N: I just wondered how far Damien would go.

* * *

Damien sighed heavily but quietly into his beer. Thoughts too far away from the newly-shifted reality running through his mind, he was barely aware of other people around him in the dimly lit common room of a small way-side dae.

Now that he knew the inner essence of Gerald Tarrant had in fact survived, he surely must be able to return to his own life. Trying to convince himself of that, he’d left Black Ridge Pass one week ago after lingering both too long and not long enough, and made his way to here, to Yamas. Here he intended to stay, at least for a while, and wait for a ship to brave the Serpent before the first autumn storm. The town held no memories, and was as good place as any to try and mend his broken heart and his aching soul.

Maybe back in Ganji he could start to regain his life. But knowing himself much better by now he had to admit that –in best case– it would be an imitation of life.

The Church was closed to him. Expelled by his own free will, he knew he wouldn’t, _couldn’t_ return and go throughout his life as if the past three years never happened. He’d seen too many things he’d preferred not to and traveled too many winding roads for too long to be able of ever wholly sharing their faith again.

No one waited for him because there was nothing left of him to wait for. He had simply lost too much.

And somehow, he was lost to the world.

He remembered his lone ride to Yamas. Once, he’d preferred to travel alone. Once, there had been some kind of freedom in it, in being alone. How much things had changed, he wondered. How much _he_ had changed. Now, it had been strange and discomforting. Not to have Gerald to share the watch with, not to feel the man’s presence in his own soul…

No one needed him except perhaps the very person who was lost to him forever. Yes, Gerald had always been able to look after himself therefore he didn’t need anyone to do that for him but towards the end of their three years journey they both had finally learned to trust each other. To rely on each other.

Damien couldn’t help but worry for his ex-companion, his friend, his _other_. Gerald wasn’t an Adept anymore. Damien missed his own ability to touch the fae every second he was awake and dreamed of it every night in his sleep. How much more terrible –and terrifying– must it be for Gerald, even if he was still able to See? _Especially_ if he was still able to See. To See, but never to Work. The other man had always relied upon his powers, for nine hundred years and longer. _What would he do without them now? Would he find a place to live?_ Damien asked himself for the umpteenth time.

He stood and went upstairs to his room. _Accept it,_ he thought. _Gerald is lost to you._ _Say it._ He made his way to the tiny bathroom and splashed cold water over his face. Slowly raising his head, he couldn't avoid the small mirror hanging on a gray-painted wall. His reflection stared back at him with the desperate eyes of a starving cat. _Gerald Tarrant is lost to Damien Vryce._ The sheer pain of that thought burned another fresh hole into his heart. He clenched his teeth against it – but as usual it wasn't helping, _nothing_ was helping. He wondered if he’d ever grow used to that. He wondered, somewhere much deeper inside his soul, if he _wanted_ to grow used to that.

“Gerald Tarrant is lost to Damien Vryce,” he repeated out loud.

And then stopped.

The idea that suddenly started to shape itself out of the bleak hopelessness within his mind was incredible enough to make him question the state of his mental health.

  
  


_TBC…_


	2. Legend Two

* * *

The man once known as Gerald Tarrant sat at an elegant mahagova table in one of the oldest and thus very fashionable restaurants in Jaggonath.

Bright white sunrise behind large, elegantly curtained windows painted the occasional fluffy cloud silver, promising a beautiful day. Such a shame he'd spend it in the Church's archives, breathing dry, dusty air and turning dry, dusty pages. _Vryce's fault, all of it,_ he thought wryly, and smiled inwardly at that. Speaking to Damien without thinking back then on the Black Ridge Pass, and claiming to be interested in legends, he'd later on decided it to be  the absolutely perfect job for him. With money hidden long ago for cases like that and an identity without any ties to the Forest it had been simple to get a license as a loremaster. And during the last month he’d managed to get a surprising lot of jobs. After all, if anyone had stories to tell it was surely him. Again, Damien's fault. Without said stubborn priest he'd still be sitting in his fortress, terrorizing the neighborhood and researching the stars. But no, he just had to go and join that damn quest, and look where it had brought him. Still, he couldn't regret the decision nor the others that had followed, a chain reaction that in the end had given him a new body, a new life and a new purpose. That wasn't what hurt. What hurt was the gaping void in his life, an emptiness once filled with friendship, and hazel brown eyes full of warmth and mischief, and complete and utter acceptance in the now silent link. He allowed himself a quiet sigh, then firmly turned his thoughts away.

Already through the excellent breakfast the restaurant was famous for, he asked for more coffee and continued to sort today’s work. He needed to find another reference, better two, for that paragraph he'd found on the first Iezus. What aspects did their space faring Mother use in her first attempts to communicate with humanity? Were said aspects _chosen_ for a certain value or a set thereof or the product of mere coincidence, taken from whomever happened to stumble across her hiding place? Given the Mother's wish to return to the stars she'd probably seek qualities that would aid her in that regard the most and thus if said Iezus were still around... Damn Karril for his less than enthusiastic help. He just hoped the so called God of Pleasure would be somewhat more accommodating once the Iezu equivalent of honeymoon was over! Which hopefully didn't take another century.

Sufficiently annoyed and his thoughts adequately far away from beautiful hazel brown eyes, he paid the bill and reached absentmindedly for ‘The Jaggonath Gazette’ the restaurant offered to all his guests for free. After checking the stock market column first –his investments kept increasing in value, of course–, he turned the page and froze in shock.

His sight blurred as the world around him seemed rapidly to collapse to a singularity, his hands shaking violently, almost dropping the page. Despair, icy and oh so much more deadly than coldfire, sunk its razor sharp claws right into his heart.

It wasn't _possible_ … it just _wasn't_...

Perhaps he’d read that wrong.

He forced his trembling hands into obedience and raised the page back to his face. With eyes widening in horror at each word, he made himself read that heading again.

‘An ex-priest’s suicide’, the headline ran. _Oh, God, please,_ he thought helplessly. _Don’t let it be_ him, _please_. ‘Once again the now unWorkable fae caused a suicide. For all it seems Damien Kilcannon Vryce, an ex-priest of the Church of Unification couldn’t cope with loss of his abilities as a sorcerer. Three days ago he committed suicide by his sword. A letter found in his room at an inn in Yamas tells of a crisis of faith and self-worth….’ Lines swimming before his eyes, the man no longer called Gerald Tarrant didn’t manage to finish the article. His hands still shaking, his fingers crumbled the newsletter as he rose and strode out of the restaurant, down the stairs and back to his house. It didn't take long, and he later couldn't recall any part of it. When the front door finally fell closed behind him, all strength seemed to leave his body as the bitter frost of guilt crept unstoppably into his soul. His legs gave in, the carpet covered floor moving rapidly closer. It was then that he lost what meager rest of his self-control had allowed him to return home in the first place. Pages creased beyond recognition slipped slowly from the weakening grip of his hand as intense emotions rapidly shattered the equally weakening grip of his usually iron will.

And sitting there, in a room as dark as his soul had suddenly become, now with its only light switched off forever, he silently wept.

  
  


_TBC..._


End file.
